


Ungodly Hours

by berksome



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-10
Updated: 2014-07-11
Packaged: 2018-02-08 06:23:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1930041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berksome/pseuds/berksome
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Ian finds himself somewhere between consciousness and comatose, he must rely heavily on his senses to decipher what's going on around him. Luckily, Mickey's around to save his sorry ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Listen Close

Ian awoke to the intoxicating scent of cigarette smoke and alcohol.

He hadn't opened his eyes, but already he was dimly aware of his shoulder being shaken by a steady hand, of voices intermixing with one another into a droning hum, and of a sharp, unmistakable chill. His freckled cheek lay pressed against a hard surface, and on his skin he felt a sleek wetness, lukewarm and slimy.

"Ian?" the shaking of his shoulder hadn't stopped, and now came the even greater noises: "Ian Gallagher!"

That was him, alright. But he couldn't find it within himself to speak, or even open his eyes. It was as if every ounce of spirit he had ever possessed had left his body, floating through the air with the indistinguishable voices.

"Jesus, Vee, we better call Mickey."

"Don't you think Fiona would be a bigger help? I mean, the kid's out cold in a puddle of his own vomit. He needs to go _home_."

"Fiona's working the late shift at Patsy's. Maybe. . .would you take him back to our place real quick? Just give him a place to crash for the night?" 

"Are you kidding me? Babysitter's already taking care of two babies, we ain't paying her to take care of three." 

"Well, then I guess we're callin' Mickey." 

_Mickey._

Ian had the mind to awake then, to bolt upright and march himself home through the bitter Chicago cold, to save Kev the trouble of phoning his boyfriend. But through it all Ian's utter weariness wouldn't allow it - however much he had taken, _it_ was taking far more of _him_. He wasn't even entirely sure _what_ it was he'd had that put him this way - among the blur of alcohol, it was impossible to distinguish what exactly had landed him in this disoriented dreamlike state - but one thing was for certain. Mickey couldn't see him this way. Mickey couldn't drag his sorry ass to wherever he deemed fit, wether that be Ian's house or his own, or some gutter somewhere. Even if Mickey were perfectly willing to do it. Ian couldn't allow that, could he?

He felt a hand frisking his waist where he sat slumped in his uncomfortable chair. Then, Kev's voice: "Mickey? No, this is Kevin. I run the Alibi Room, you know? Look, Ian's here n' he's out cold. He, uh, he kinda needs you, man." 

A pause. 

"Dude, I _know_ it's late as fuck. I wouldn't be callin' if I thought he could manage without you. Kid's pretty banged up and I don't know how long he's been here." 

Banged up? 

"Alright, yeah. Thanks, man. I'm sure Ian'll be glad for it in the morning." 

Ian felt his phone being replaced to his pocket and allowed himself to relax. Mickey was on his way. He shouldn't worry, should he - Mickey had seen plenty of sorry asses in his time. None of which he had been in love with. For a moment, Ian, in his barely conscious state, reveled in that simple fact: Mickey loved him. Mickey loved him to such an extent that he was willing to pick him up and take him home at ungodly hours. 

Ian had almost fallen back into a more hazy stupor when a familiar voice rang out with a certain resigned exasperation: "Jesus Christ, Ian." 

Ian nearly managed a grunt, but when he tried to speak, his throat felt like he had swallowed fire. Swallowing hard, his spit tasting like some odd alcoholic mixture and possibly blood, he resolved not to try to speak again. 

And suddenly he was being lifted and swung over Mickey's shoulder, as ragged as if he were sack of potatoes. "God, you're fucking heavy!" In his mind he saw Mickey, with his broad shoulders and stocky build, carrying Ian's own limp body, staggering with his arms clasped around Ian's waist. How funny this must look to any onlookers, Ian mused, though no smiles found their way onto his lips. 

The air changed. 

The nauseating heat of the Alibi room became the still and steady chill of Chicago air, thin and icy, exhuming his bones. As if feeling it too, Mickey pulled Ian's body slightly closer to him as a shiver rippled down his spine.

"Now, here's what we're gonna do, Ian," Mickey murmured, trudging down the sidewalk, his teeth chattering. Through his eyelids Ian saw patches of bleak grayness, the street lamps above them aglow with cold light. "We're gonna get you home. My place. Wash that gross shit off your face, change your shirt. Then Imma put you to bed, alright? You'll have my bed. We'll share, yeah? No whining like a little bitch." 

It pained Ian that he couldn't manage a smile. A chuckle, a groan. _Something_ to let Mickey know he was listening. 

Then again, Ian thought, maybe it had it's advantages. Maybe if Mickey didn't know Ian was listening, he would keep talking. Maybe he'd say things he wouldn't say if he knew Ian could hear him. 

After another few moments, Mickey began to speak again, his jaws chattering more violently. "How'd you go and fuck yourself up like this, Ian? God damn. Get in a fight? Lose a bet? I don't fuckin' know. Still, though, not as bad as that night we beat up my dad. _That_ was pretty bad. Whole side of your face was all mangled and shit. Blood in your hair like you were being fucking scalped or something. Can't imagine how bad I looked." To Ian's numb surprise, he felt a soft rumble of laughter shake Mickey's body. "Yeah, we were pretty fucked up. Glad we got that bastard put away, though. Thanks for. . ." Mickey slowed, his motions distracted for only a moment before he sped up again. "Thanks for defending me, Ian." 

_I wasn't defending you,_ Ian thought. _I was defending **us.**  _

Mickey's walking turned into a steady, lulling motion, drawing Ian deeper into his stupor. _No,_ Ian thought, fighting it, _Is there more to say?_

But since his last spiel all that escaped Mickey's lips was a sigh of reminiscence, and he had not spoken again. So, feeling his own heart beat like metronome, Ian allowed himself to be lulled into a disoriented slumber. 


	2. Any Time

Mickey's hands quaked as he drove his house key into the lock, his fingers purpling and numb. 

When the key ceased it's motion, halting half way between where Mickey was and the salvation of the open door, Mickey swore under his breath and pulled the key roughly from it's socket. "Worthless shit key." 

_Try again, Mick._

Ian's voice, soft and calm in his mind. "Yeah," Mickey mumbled, almost spitefully, "If you were _conscious_ , that's what you'd say." 

Mickey wondered vaguely if he were spiraling into insanety, if Ian's voice appearing in his mind was some form of schizophrenia, or some defect from all punches in the head he'd ever received. He certainly hoped not. 

Again Mickey raised his hand - with less haste now - and watched as the key slid smoothly into the lock and turned without pause. A click resounded and, instantly feeling less wrathful, Mickey thrust open the door. 

Mickey's skin prickled as stale air wafted around him, a welcome change from the outside conditions. With a grunt of relief, Mickey cast a glance at Mandy - on the couch, the television illuminating her sleeping visage - before waddling into his bedroom. 

He dumped Ian heavily onto his bed. 

He was expecting Ian to rouse then; He was expecting Ian to open his eyes and crack a joke regarding the nasty gashes on his face. To smile his little shit smile and allow himself to be half-carried into the bathroom and given a shower. 

He didn't. 

Instead Ian lay there, sprawled on Mickey's bedspread, eyelids dropping, mouth open and smelling like absolute shit. 

"C'mon, Ian," Mickey complained, "What the fuck, dude. You're makin' me think you're dead or something." 

Mickey's mouth went dry. Quickly, the thought just now occurring to him, he sprung to Ian's side and pressed his fingers to the other's throat. 

After a moment, Mickey felt Ian's pulse flutter to life under his fingertips and allowed himself to breathe. 

"Okay, so we've established that you're not fuckin' dead," Mickey said, stepping back from Ian and feeling sheepish, "But you still could use a shower." 

It took a good twenty minutes to get Ian stripped, showered, and redressed, with Mickey fumbling and toppling over more times than he was willing to admit. Again he found himself in the same position, with Ian sprawled on the bedspread and Mickey standing before him, arms crossed and mouth set in a hard line. 

"Last chance, Ian," Mickey sighed, all the annoyance gone from his voice and replaced with weariness, "You really got nothin' to say?" 

Ian remained unconscious. Rude. 

With a sigh, Mickey stripped to his boxers and tucked both himself and Ian beneath the bedsheets--

It came so quietly Mickey thought for a moment he was imagining it, as he had before. Throaty mumbles resounding in his ear, so soft it could have just been Ian breathing. But no, Mickey was certain that there had been _words_ spoken, albeit just barely distinguishable. 

"What?" Mickey turned, flopping onto his side, so close to Ian he could count the freckles speckling his cheeks. Ian's eyes were closed, and for the first time that night he appeared relaxed rather than sickly - his eyebrows unfurled, lips swollen and puckered. The thought of kissing him crossed Mickey's mind, but he quickly extinguished the idea. 

"Thank you," Ian's lips barely moved when he said it, but it was enough to make Mickey's heart flutter in his chest. 

"I. . .you're welcome." Mickey's voice had dropped to a whisper; "Anytime." 

The ghost of a smile played on Ian's lips, but he didn't say anything more. 


End file.
